


The Honey of Our Lit Up Veins

by SpaceJackalope



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: All three of them are very in love, BDSM, Bondage, Consentacles, Damien is anxious, Dom/sub, F/M, Light Crying, Light come marking, Listen there's a lot going on, M/M, Multi, Not so much tentacles as vines--Tendrils if you will, PWP, Pet Names, Plant sex, Praise Kink, Rated E for being entirely about sex, Rilla is a gentle dom, Rope Bondage, Smut, Suspension, Tentacles, The Penumbra 2019 Valentacular Spectacular, Valentacles Spectacle 2k19, You're welcome Sophie Kaner, light/soft BDSM, this is sincere tender affectionate sex with magic plants involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceJackalope/pseuds/SpaceJackalope
Summary: Subtitle: Vines, What Can't They Do?Step 1) Create magic/science vines as a botany experimentStep 2) Wait, they can do *that*?Step 3) Orgasms





	The Honey of Our Lit Up Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Because Sophie Kaner is dissatisfied with the amount of tentacle porn written by this fandom. Happy Valentine's Day, Sophie!
> 
> Kindly beta'd by Pippin!
> 
> Title from "Dance, Dance, While the Hive Collapses" by Tiffany Higgins. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58655/dance-dance-while-the-hive-collapses
> 
> :3c

The vines crept through their open bedroom window while they were all out of the house in the morning, and now they have spread themselves into a bower across the ceiling, vine ends curling and dangling into the room throughout. They’re thick and healthy-looking, with a smooth green periderm and pink flowers. The leaves are velvety, like lamb’s-ear leaves, and heart-shaped.   

“It’s beautiful,” Damien says, his voice tinged with awe and confusion. “What sort of plant _is_ it, precisely?”

Rilla exhales swiftly— _not_ a huff, _not_ a sigh, she’s _fine_ with how this plant turned out, it’s just… “We don’t know _what_ we made.” With that admission, her face twists in discontent.

“The goal,” Arum adds, “was to combine the rapid growth of kudzu with more attractive trailing plants. Sweet peas, clematis, that sort of thing. Pretty blooms.” He blushes, a little, and Damien is reminded (yet again) that Lord Arum being a lizard-man does not discount him as a _man_. Only people blush. And, of all the people Damien knows, only Arum gets flustered when he talks about pretty flowers. He’s _very_ cute. Damien kisses his jaw. Arum _tktktktktktk_ -s, pleased and shy.

Rilla’s at the window, taking notes on the vines’ growth pattern. Damien, across the room, approaches the end of a vine that’s dangling freely within his reach, and cups a flower in his hands. The shape is something like a cross between a rose and a peony, Damien thinks, though he expects his loves would have a more precise description. It’s really stunning, three shades of pink striated across the petals, soft and delicate and sweet-smelling. He imagines bees will like this new plant at least as much as he does. He runs his fingers across the many layers of petals, enjoying the silky slide of them ruffling against his skin. The center is hidden, covered by a swirling fold of inner petals. He presses his thumb there, wondering if he can part them without damaging the flower.

Behind him, Arum says “Rilla? Are you alright?” and Rilla gasps shakily. Damien turns, concerned. Rilla’s white-knuckling a bare stretch of windowsill and trembling minutely. Arum is by her side, all four hands twisting in concern, like he wants to touch her reassuringly but isn’t sure he dares.

“Amaryllis, my dearest, are you hurt?” Damien releases the flower, twirling and taking a long stride in her direction, his hand carelessly knocking backwards into the bloom. Rilla lets out a small scream, and something grabs Damien’s left wrist tightly, discouraging him from moving. Arum puts his upper arms around Rilla’s shoulders.

“’m fine,” she says breathily, “I’m _okay_ , I just. Too intense.”

Arum rattles, confused. “ _What_ was, Rilla? Did you find a thorn?”

“No—I—I don’t know what it was, I just felt…”

Damien’s frustrated, wanting to go to Rilla’s side but unable to move closer. He’s reluctant to ask for help when Rilla plainly ought to be the center of attention, but. Well. A _vine_ has _grabbed his wrist_ , and that may be connected to whatever has her off-kilter. “Er,” he says finally. “Lord Arum? Could I have a moment’s assistance?”

Both his sweethearts turn to look at him, hearing the tension in his voice. Arum scowls at the restraining vine in consternation. Rilla, however, puts a hand to her face and looks… _guilty_?

“I think,” she confesses slowly, “I think I might be…doing that?” Her eyebrows draw close together, and her tongue peeks out of her mouth, as it often does when she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Ah,” she says faintly, and the vine sheepishly uncoils itself from Damien’s wrist.

Both men stare at Rilla. Her blush deepens. Damien rubs at his wrist a little. It’s fine, not even chafed, but it’s habit. He’s been tied up by Rilla before, and she’s _very_ serious about aftercare. He gives her a questioning look. She somehow blushes even deeper, throwing her hands up into the air. “I don’t _know_ , okay! I didn’t grab you consciously. I didn’t even make the connection until just now. Were you…” She trails off, makes a face.

“Rilla,” Arum says impatiently. “Don’t try to make what you felt _logical_. Describe it first, then we’ll solve it. If there is indeed anything _to_ solve.” It’s a familiar argument, one Damien loves to stay out of, making hot chocolate or braiding hair while they talk theory and method.

Rilla puts a single finger into the air. She looks more collected now. “Damien, were you… _touching_ …a flower?”

“Yeeees?” Damien feels stupid, or underwater. Something’s preventing his brain from moving quickly enough, but he can _see_ that he’s barreling towards a conclusion that will take some time to adjust to.

Rilla perks up, putting her hands on her hips. “Okay! Great, that makes sense, because what I felt was definitely a hand on my folds, but it was, like, a _lot_ of layers, more than just my actual labia would be, which was _very_ confusing.” She pauses. “But not in the slightest bit unpleasant.” She looks pointedly at Damien, who realizes belatedly that he has folded both his hands over his heart. He opens his mouth, but his tongue doesn’t seem to be working, and all that comes out is a faint moan.

Arum rattles, amused. “Amaryllis, just to be clear: you can _feel_ these vines, and Damien touching them is…arousing?” He nuzzles against her neck. 

“Well. Yeah. In a nutshell.”

Someone makes a strangled noise. Damien figures it’s probably him. “Can—” he says, stumbling over his words. “That is, would you like…can we _please_ do more?”

Rilla and Arum both break into laughter. “Yeah. I’d like that,” Rilla tells him, slipping out of Arum’s arms to kiss Damien soundly. “Do you want to try,” she giggles; perseveres, “fingering my flower again?” He nods enthusiastically, words lost once more. Arum has crossed to the bed and reclines on it now, one pair of arms folded behind his head and the other twiddling his thumbs anticipatorily in his lap. Rilla bounces up onto the mattress beside him, sits criss-cross applesauce, and watches Damien with something like a challenge in her eyes.

He cups the flower again, more reverently, as Rilla deserves. He draws one thumb from the outer layer of petals towards the center, just gently stimulating them. Rilla hums. Damien slips his pinky finger between two layers, withdraws it, returns it with his other pinky positioned symmetrically on the other side. Slowly, delicately, he adds more fingers, so that each finger is soon between different layers of petal, dragging across their surfaces, drawing small circles. His thumbs hover above the furled innermost petals, where he’d overstimulated her shortly before.

“I think she likes that, honeysuckle,” Arum says behind him, voice warm and dryly amused. When Damien looks back over his shoulder, he can see Rilla squirming on the bed, mouth open, Arum’s hand stroking her hair.

Damien, for all that he usually struggles to _shut up_ , even when he _knows_ he’s making things awkward, and it’d be okay if he could just _stop his mouth_ , is not good at dirty talk. Rilla can tease him out of his mind easily, and all Arum has to do is make his voice do _that one thing_ , and Damien turns to putty. He wishes he could say something to Rilla now that would be good, but he knows the feeling in his chest won’t coalesce until he’s curled up boneless, nothing to think about except stray words rearranging themselves into a poem.

“May I?” he says instead, brushing his thumbs very lightly against the flower’s center, just enough for her to know what he means.

“ _Yeah_ ,” she breathes. The petals loosen a little, enough for Damien to spread them further with his thumbs. The center parts are a lovely dark purplish color, almost like a bruise. There’s nectar all over his thumbs now, rivulets of it cascading down the petals. He brushes the pad of one thumb across the tip of the structure it’s coming from, pleased when it comes away sticky.

“I don’t quite know what I’m doing,” he admits. “This part isn’t as—familiar? Analogous?”

Rilla pants. “Fair enough. That’s the stigma of the pistil you’re touching.” Damien runs his thumb along the—stem?—of that central structure. “Style,” Rilla gasps. Damien presses lightly against the bulb nestled into the very lowest part of the flower. “O-ovary, _don’t_ touch there again, that almost hurt.”

“Alright. Thank you for telling me,” he says, like Rilla always does when he has to call a yellow flag. He doesn’t feel remotely dominant at the moment, but he thinks the novelty of this experience is giving Rilla something like the vulnerability he craves when he floats, so he’s trying to draw on what makes him feel secure during those games.

He sweeps his exploring thumb along a delicate, wispy structure, one of several encircling the pistil. “Oh,” Rilla says, surprised. “Filament.” His thumb brushes against the head of it, knocking pretty orange-red dust across his hand and the flower’s petals. “Anther,” Rilla coos.

“Stamens, too?” Arum confirms, intrigued. “Then you have perfect flowers, Rilla.”

“Of _course_ she does,” Damien gushes.

Arum and Rilla giggle together. “He means botanically.”

“I was being scientific _and_ infatuated, my loves.”

Damien keeps touching the flower’s center for a while, until Rilla comes with a high, sweet noise. His hands are now thoroughly smeared with nectar and pollen, and he slides his fingertips into his mouth and sucks.

Arum makes a keening noise. Rilla hums inquisitively at him. “Damien just tasted your…its…the nectar.”

“Oh. Oh! Damien, tell us what it tastes like, is it anything like tasting my slick?”

Damien’s eyes closed in pleasure when he drew his fingers across his tongue, but now he throws a smile in their direction. “No. It tastes like—I _know_ , you can save the joke—sucking the nectar out of honeysuckle trumpets. But better. Richer.” He releases the bloom. “Rilla,” he pleads, squirming in embarrassment. “Rilla, will you restrain me with the vines again?”

He looks fully at her for the first time since they began. She’s resting her head on Arum’s chest, her skirt pulled up and fingers inside herself. Arum’s hands are caressing her face, chest, and thighs. He’s half-hard, eyes sparkling.

Rilla flicks some hair out of her sweaty face. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

Arum gives her a gentle pat on her side. “Why don’t we all take a moment to address our clothes first? I think our honeysuckle here could use the breathing room, _tktktktkttktk_.”

Damien feels his face heat up. Obviously, it isn’t a _bad_ thing that Arum can see how hard he is. In fact, Arum is one of the two people whom he really, _really_ wants to be aware of his…whole dick situation. Still, it makes him feel vulnerable, exposed. Which, to be fair, he _likes_. But that _really_ doesn’t lessen the intensity of it, which is probably actually a _benefit_ , for sex purposes. Still, it’s A Lot and…he’s spiraling, and he still hasn’t taken off his pants.   

Arum is looking at him kindly. “Do you want some help, my dear?”

Damien covers his face with his hands. “Yes, please,” he says, muffled.

Arum leaves the bed, where Rilla is enthusiastically wiggling out of her dress and lingerie, and puts his arms around Damien. His lower hands get to work on Damien’s belt buckle, while the upper pair smooths gentling strokes across Damien’s chest and ribcage. When his pants are unfastened, Damien uncovers his face with a little effort, pulls them off, and lets Arum do his shirt buttons, burying his face in Arum’s shoulder. Arum finishes and pushes him gently but firmly away. Damien pulls the shirt the rest of the way off his body. Arum curls his tongue around Damien’s ear—“ _good_ boy”—and imperiously pulls Damien’s underwear down, squeezing his ass. Damien shudders and looks at the ceiling. Normally, this would be a neutral focal point, but today it’s covered in vines that are, apparently, going to wreck him sexually.

It’s really something.

Arum sees to it that Damien’s underwear isn’t going to get in the way on his ankles, kicks the clothes to one side, and tosses his robes into the pile. “I think we’re all ready, my blossoms,” he purrs, rejoining Rilla on the bed. Damien takes a deep breath and looks at her. She gives him a _hungry_ grin, eyes dark and merry. He loves her really quite profoundly.

And then the vines come for him.

There are several, he’s not sure how many, snaking around his limbs, testing him. “How does that feel, Damien?”

“Good,” he chokes back.

“Okay, I’m going to try to tighten the ones on your wrists. I’ll count off; I want you to tell me how my accuracy is.”

Damien nods.

“You know you’re safe with us,” Rilla continues. “But this is new, and I need you to tell me if it’s not going well. Safeword?”

“Helicoid.”

Rilla and Arum both snort.

“Okay,” Rilla says, voice steady. “Here’s my one…two...three,” tightening the coil with each number. It feels like it’s about the same amount of pressure as when she does it with rope, so her dexterity with the vines is actually better than he’d expected. He tells her so, and she gives him another wolfish grin. “How do you feel about suspension?”

Damien can’t inhale for a second, like all the air in his lungs wants to fly to Rilla and Arum on the bed, touch their cheeks and curl up with them forever. “ _Positively_ ,” he gasps out. “I feel very positively about suspension!” Rilla doesn’t make him wait, tightening the tendrils into a firm grip on his body, and pulling up, so that he’s hanging over the bed, looking down at her and Arum.

Damien shudders. A bead of his precome falls, splashing across Arum’s stomach. They both jerk as if electrified. “This,” Arum says, a little dazed, “was a very good idea, Amaryllis.”

Rilla basks. “I _knooow_.”

Damien giggles and writhes, testing the vines. They’re just tight enough. It’s a pretty similar feeling to rope, but the vines are staying cool against his skin, changing little with exposure to his body heat. “Would you bring a flower closer to my mouth?” he suggests. “I could. Well.”

“Floralingus,” Arum suggests, and Rilla dissolves into laughter. She grants Damien’s request, shifting a vine so that a large bloom perches against his face, the tips of his nose and chin tickled by the soft petals. It’s looser than the first one was when he started, petals more open, the center already exposed. Damien is able to attend to the pistil with his tongue, no need for hands. He laps along the places Rilla had liked best on the first flower, dipping the tip of his tongue between layers of petals and across the center, covering his mouth and chin with nectar. He can watch Rilla’s reactions more easily this time, can see her coming apart and touching herself and watching him. He can also see how Arum watches them both, cuddling into Rilla’s side. Damien pulls his head back, panting breathlessly and gulping air into his lungs. His mouth keeps going slack, as it tends to when he’s submissive, and he watches with a rush of unhelpful and unnecessary shame as a mix of spit and nectar falls from his tongue onto Arum’s chest. He wishes he could hide his face again.

Arum reaches up, bringing one hand to Damien’s burning face. Damien hopes he’s going to gently close his mouth, since Damien’s muscles apparently don’t want to cooperate, but instead he receives a very tender stroke across his cheek, before Arum slides his own thumb into Damien’s mouth and opens it wider. Damien thinks he might die, which is fine, but Arum’s not done with him, sliding another hand along the length of Damien’s cock, collecting his slickness and fisting his own dicks with that hand.

Damien is overwhelmed and a little uncomfortable—not with Arum or Rilla, just physically. His forehead is sweaty, he wants his hair off his face, and he wishes he felt just a smidgeon less transparent. He mumbles a request around Arum’s thumb. It’s not very intelligible, so Arum withdraws the thumb, dragging it spit-slick across Damien’s cheek. “May I have more control over my arms, please?”

Rilla complies, smiling up at him and murmuring to Arum, “His eyelashes are so fucking pretty.”

The vines rearrange. Rilla has left one looping freely such that Damien can rest his arms against it if he wants, but he can now do what he likes with his hands and arms. He pushes his hair back, gratified when it seems inclined to stay tucked how he wants it, and only a little disarmed to realize the flower nectar on his hand is helping it stick. He nudges Arum’s thumb back between his jaws, which makes Arum laugh. _This is better_ , Damien thinks, feeling calmer. Arum brings another hand up to mirror the first, his fingers gently caressing and exploring Damien’s jaw, tongue, lips. Rilla is breathing heavily.

Damien starts paying a little more attention to the thatch of plants surrounding him. There’s a nice sort of cascading thicket of vine endings within his grasp, so he reaches out and strokes a leaf. It’s velveteen, heaven on his hyper-alert skin. He tugs lightly on the vine, and it obligingly shifts to trace its velvety leaves along Damien’s spine. He sighs in delight around Arum’s hands.

“Um,” says Rilla, below, but Damien doesn’t pay much attention. He’s parting vines with his hands, discovering another flower. This one is different from the others he’s looked at up-close, shaped more like a large lady’s slipper. He makes a surprised sound and cups it in one hand. Arum makes an _astonished_ sound, his hands falling from Damien’s face to his own chest.

“Arum,” Rilla gasps, excited, “did _you_ feel that one?” Arum nods, his upper hands framing his own face in pleased surprise. “And you’re controlling the one stroking Damien’s back, right?”

“I’m—not sure?” Arum replies, voice shaky. “I can _feel_ him, but I don’t seem to be able to…” he makes a frustrated sound. “You know how you can zero in on the sensation in your toes or tongue or whatever, right? I can’t quite—it’s out of reach—I.”

Rilla runs her hands across Arum’s skin, soothes him. Damien watches him still under her loving touch. “Arum,” she says, “try to picture the vine like it’s attached to your body. Imagine a pulse running from your heart,” (Damien watches her trace along Arum’s skin) “down your arm, from the tip of your finger into the tip of a vine and along its length.” The tangle of vines in front of Damien rustles.

“Oh,” Arum says. “I think…” A vine Damien can’t see kisses the inner bend of one of his knees with a soft leaf.

“You’ve got it now,” Damien tells him dreamily. Arum makes a triumphant noise and the flower Damien’s been cupping shifts closer to his face. Damien kisses what he thinks of as the tip of it. Arum _squeaks_ , so of course Damien does it again. Rilla claps with glee. There are vines all around him now, both Rilla’s and Arum’s. He can sort of sense which are whose if he really thinks about it, but mostly he doesn’t care. Right now, he just wants to put his mouth on Arum’s flower.

He cups it in his hand again, covering the thin, delicate bell of it with gentle kisses. The cup is framed, as lady’s slippers are, with three broad petals, and these Damien licks, his tongue flat. Arum is making the same kind of darling undignified noises he does when Damien is on his knees, sucking him off. Damien teases the inside of the flower’s cup with his fingers, and Arum lets out a pleased, unalarming scream.

“What did that feel like?” Rilla asks, awed. “Did he basically touch the inside of your dick?”

Arum laughs, breathless. “No, just—it’s somewhat like he’s touching my entrance and my cocks and my sac all at once? It’s,” he gulps, “ _very_ pleasant.”

“Damien,” Rilla says, thoughtful. “I’ve realized we have some vines without any leaves or flowers on them.” Which, he’s sure, is very botanically interesting. He licks along the underside of the cup of the Arum flower, tongue tracing a seam where petals overlap. “I could finger you so that you could take them,” Rilla continues, finishing with: “or, rather, so we could take _you_ with them.”

Damien very carefully withdraws his mouth before speaking. “ _Yes_.”

“Yes, what?” she insists, a smile in her voice.

“Rilla, Arum, please fuck me with your unholy magic-science vines until I’m screaming, please, I _need_ it.”

“Well, well,” Rilla responds, tender and warm. “You’re self-assured today.”

He isn’t, not really. He knows he’s going to need reassurance after they’ve all come, that they’ll pet his hair and tell him he did so beautifully for them, no really, he was so sweet and so good, until he starts to believe it. But he is very _certain_ ; he has complete conviction that what he really wants most in the world is for his lovers to fuck him senseless, and well, they’ve _got_ the vines, might as well _use_ them. (The vines, the vines they can feel, that have him trussed up and hanging in the air like an offering, better than rope because they can feel his skin where they’ve secured him, they can touch him _everywhere_ and still have their hands free to do more.)

Damien’s face feels hot and sticky, covered in Rilla’s nectar and Arum’s nectar and his own saliva. It’s alright, though, because Arum and Rilla are looking at him like he’s sacred or made of honey; like they’re going to defile him and devour him because they think he’s perfect, and he’ll plead for them to do it again. (And again, and again, and they _will_.)

“I think,” he whispers hoarsely, “that I want my hands tied again.”

Arum and Rilla cooperate, rearranging vines so that his arms are comfortably bound behind his back. They lower him a few inches, so that it’s easier for Rilla to get to his ass. She bounces off the bed, finds lube, and returns. Her fingers circle Damien’s entrance and he shivers, cock pulsing. Arum licks his face. “Don’t clean me off,” Damien pleads, enjoying feeling filthy and owned. A new wave of shyness courses through him, but he shrugs it off, proud to be able to look at Arum’s stunned, smug face. He’s smirking, but his eyes are gentle.

“As you wish, honeysuckle.”

Rilla presses a finger into Damien, who moans wantonly. Arum shifts his own body down the bed, so that he can lick Damien’s chest while Rilla stretches him. A second finger, a third. Damien shakes, grateful that the vines hold him steady, embracing him and protecting him. “Ready?” Rilla asks, cupping his ass gently in her steady, callused hands.

“Uh-huh,” he moans, despite knowing she won’t accept an inarticulate answer. “Yes.”

She gives his ass a sweet, condescending pat, and the vines pull him up. Rilla crawls up the bed, straddling Arum. There is a brief, whispered consultation, and Arum repositions himself for her, sitting upright against the headboard. Rilla shifts to meet him, and Damien gets a good look at her thighs—Saint Damien, she’s so wet she’s dripped almost to her knees—and she sinks onto both Arum’s dicks at once, her back against his chest, both sets of their eyes fixed on Damien’s burning face. He’s close enough that either of them can kiss him, if they want. (He hopes they will.)

A vine touches its blunt tip to Damien’s entrance, politely. He nods, several times, rapidly. His mouth is open again. He can’t be bothered to care. The tendril slides into him. Though tapered, it’s more slender at its widest point than he’s used to taking, but it feels lovely, cool and unyielding inside him. He moans encouragingly. The tendril thrusts delightfully, curling its tip into his prostate rhythmically. Damien’s toes curl—and then it pulls out. He whines. Rilla chuckles and catches his chin, giving him a brief kiss before pulling back out of his reach. A second, distinct tendril caresses Damien’s thigh, sliding without hesitation inside him. Its motions are broadly similar to the first, thrusting, caressing, lingering over his sweet spots, but it has its own pattern, its own personality. This one is Rilla’s, he thinks. She too fucks him until he’s keening, and then pulls out.

Damien pants, craving touch. He opens his eyes slowly. Rilla and Arum are rocking their hips together, fucking each other. He thinks for a second that they’ve forgotten him, then suspects they’re ignoring him, and then something pushes confidently into his hole. He gasps. It’s both vines twisted together in a helix, thick and compellingly textured. Damien shudders, his whole body singing with heat. “ _Sssss_ ,” he says, or tries to say.

“ _Tktktktktk_ to you too, dear,” Arum teases.

Damien is surprised into a huff of laughter. “ _So good_ ,” he manages, at last. “So good, so full, thank you thank you _thank you_.”

Arum keeps his lower hands on Rilla’s hips, grabs Damien’s head with the upper pair. Damien expects to be kissed on his mouth again, but he finds himself positioned instead so that Rilla can suck sideways on his neck. She bites sweetly along his jaw and throat and collarbones for some minutes before a whimper tears from Damien’s throat. He’s overwhelmed, he’s so _close_. “Honeysuckle,” Arum purrs, “are you crying?” He is, a little.

“Do you need to stop?” Rilla asks, lips against his skin.

“No! No, no _definitely_ not.” The tears spill across his cheeks, and then down onto Rilla’s shoulder and Arum’s chest. “This is—good great _magnificent_ , please may I come?”

Rilla studies his face, runs a thumb along his slick lower lip. “In a minute.” She and Arum release him, letting him swing slightly out of their space, still fucking him with their joined vines, and Damien feels loose and open and slick and _used_. It’s perfect.

He watches while Rilla and Arum snap their hips together a few more times before Arum comes, head falling against Rilla’s shoulder. Rilla comes with him, for what is probably her fourth or fifth orgasm of the evening—Damien’s long since lost count. They’re both beautiful. They untangle, kiss each other gently. They’re still fucking Damien mercilessly, and his heart swells with love and appreciation.

The vines holding him change, bringing him lower and turning him halfway onto his side. He’s just barely hovering over Arum’s reclining body, now, Arum wrapping his arms around Damien and kissing his face. Rilla lies on her stomach perpendicular to both men, and wraps her mouth around Damien’s cock. She sucks, curls her tongue, and Damien screams a little, shuddering against Arum’s steadying warmth. Rilla pulls her mouth off with a self-satisfied _pop_ , before giving him two swift, sure pumps with her hand as the twisted vines press both their tips against Damien’s sweet spot. He comes with a howl.   

The next thing he’s fully, properly conscious of is lying between his lovers, unbound and once again beholden to gravity pulling him into the soft mattress. They’re petting his hair and whispering that he did so beautifully for them, he was so sweet and so good. He hums a little. “There you are,” Rilla says cheerfully. “Darling, you look so _pretty_ all covered in come and tears. I love it.” She kisses his forehead. _I love it too_ , Damien thinks, and then Rilla tells him “I’ll grab a towel and clean you up.”

He doesn’t have the energy to speak yet, but he twitches faintly, and Arum must remember something he’d said earlier, because he runs his fingers across a sensitive spot on Damien’s collarbone and tells Rilla, “Let’s wait, sweetest. He’s enjoying it.”

Damien hums an affirmative noise, not even bothering to hide his face. Rilla relaxes against the front of his body. She’s soft and warm, and he’s glad she’s here. He’s glad Arum’s here. He’s glad they’re all together. Rilla kisses the bridge of Damien’s nose, and he peeks at her through his eyelashes. “You like being a mess for us Damien?” He smiles at her. “Ahhh, I see. You like being pretty and marked up and _ours_.” Arum gives his nipple a rolling tug on _ours_ , accompanied by a light bite on the nape of his neck.

Damien tries to say yes, only managing “Yyyyyyh.”

“Well!” Rilla chirps. “We’ll just have to revisit this knowledge another time, won’t we, Lord Arum?”

“Oh yes,” Arum agrees, voice rich with promise. “I don’t think our honeysuckle has received even a fraction of what he deserves yet.”

Damien makes a small, pleased squeaking sound, and falls blissfully into a doze. In a minute, someone will get a damp washcloth and clean the worst of the mess off his skin. In an hour, he’ll wake up with enough energy for a bath and a snack, and then he’ll sleep through the night, deeply and without anxiety.

Perhaps the vines will still be here tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I went into this thinking "I shall write some crack." That ended as soon as I'd started the Word document. Apparently I was champing at the bit to write someone performing oral sex on a flower.
> 
> I wrote this during the 17 December Tumblr log-out to protest their new policy on NSFW content. Which is extra appropriate since I discovered some of the kinks in this fic from content on Tumblr. 
> 
> Speaking of--if you enjoyed this fic, you may enjoy this art by Dakota Bardy I've loved for several years. Contains shoulders-up sexuality. http://dakotaaaa.tumblr.com/post/119478453464/poses-for-sale-here
> 
> While brainstorming titles, I also discovered this (pretty terrible imho!) sex vines poem by Robert Herrick. 17th century. He was a vicar. Horny on main since fucking forever, that's humanity. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50721/the-vine
> 
> You may also enjoy my other Penumbra fic:  
> "5 times Peter Nureyev dressed up for Juno Steel, and 1 time he didn’t"   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302303/chapters/30444285   
> "Roses 2: Electric Boogaloo"   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802014/chapters/42000761
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr as cartograffiti, and on Pillowfort as Jackalope!


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